Everyone Needs a Place Like The Par 4 or "There's a Tear in my Beer"

  

"In the last year that the Par 4 was in existence, a Cuban refugee, Hermes Entenza, lived next door at the Honeycutt's. We went to the Par 4 once. Hermes' only livelihood was painting. I asked him to paint me a picture and when he asked of what, I said "the Par 4". This is it."
Robert H. Lee

"There's a tear in my beer 

'cause I'm cryin' for you, dear   

You are on my lonely mind. "

Hank Williams

I hopped up on the barstool next to my friend who had arrived just before me at our regular hang-out.  Before my butt hit the vinyl covered cushion, my Miller High Life was being placed in front of me on the bar. It was that kind of place. They knew your beer and watched the door to see who was coming in so they could grab it from the icy cold cooler and serve it before you had a chance to ask.  There was no need for questions about how you would pay. If you had been there before you were automatically added to a little recipe file box of index cards. Each card had someone’s name written on it. And each card had a series of hash-marks which kept track of how many beers you had drank. When you paid, which was whenever you happened to have some funds available, they simply scratched through the corresponding hash-marks with the number of beers you paid for. 

All beers were one dollar, so no need for pulling out a calculator.

I grabbed the salt shaker from the counter and salted the rim of my bottle, took a swig, and turned to my friend.  “I found the perfect job for me in the paper today!” I exclaimed. He half-laughed and smiled as he retorted, “What? They are looking for someone to sit on a barstool, drink beer, and philosophize?”  Hahaha.  This quick answer had me laughing already. It’s why I came here to this little pub named The Par 4.  It was a place to laugh.  It was a place for the broken-hearted to come and have fun. A place to be yourself. If laughter and camaraderie have healing powers, then this was a place to fix your broken heart.

Joe

My own broken heart had lead me here.  After a break-up of a three-year long relationship I had nowhere to spend my weekend nights.  My ex-girlfriend and I had hung out with other couples and spending time with a bunch of lovebirds was the last thing I wanted to do.  I was living with my parents as I was trying to wrap up college.  We lived on a lake surrounded by farm land and dotted with small towns.  There were only three bars in the area. The Par 4 seemed like an unlikely place for me to go, but I was desperate to have company.  I walked in to the dimly lit pub which had previously been a Pure Oil gas station and service bay.  Jimmy was bartending that first night. His step-father and mother owned the joint. He was the only person in the place and obviously hungry for company as well.

As I drank my first cold brew, Jimmy told me about his recent break-up with his fiancé. She was also the mother of his son.  Jimmy was the same age as me. I told him about the fresh heartache I had suffered and we were fast friends.  The next beer was on him. And the next. Jimmy needed to talk and I had nothing else to do so that made me a good listener.  I needed to talk and Jimmy was stuck behind the bar I sat at, so he was a good listener too. We came from different worlds. I was a wannabe hippie that went to college and Jimmy was already a Dad and working to support himself. But that did not matter, because heartbreak does not discriminate.

The bar was uniquely situated just inside the local college town. A prestigious college well known for high academic standards. Just on the other side of the town line was another town.  These communities sat side by side for hundreds of years and were polar opposites in most every way.  The other town was a mill town. Old textile factories or whatever manufacturing had moved into those factories employed everyone who lived there. They were working people. They ran machines, worked odd shifts, and drove forklifts.  They came to The Par 4 after long hours of standing on their feet or moving heavy objects onto trucks. They came to sit, relax, and laugh with friends.  I don’t remember any of the Managers from these plants frequenting the establishment. Nor did the professors from the college. But the Professor’s kids that were my age were regulars.  The occasional group of students would nervously come in, but I’m not sure that they had a full appreciation for the beauty of this dive.  No doubt, it was a dive. Concrete floors, the old car lifts buried beneath the them. The barstool's rips were repaired with black electrical tape.  There were pickled eggs, Penrose sausages, and Sardines on the menu. Well, there wasn’t a menu, but the delicacies were prominently displayed on the shelf behind the bar.  Oh, and they had pickled pig’s feet as well.

Me (wannabe hippie) John (intellectual who hunted and split wood)

I made new friends. Good people.  Some that I had gone to high school with who were wrapping up their higher education as well. Some of my new friends were twenty years older and looked thirty years older. Factory work ages you. Some were extreme intellectuals who grew up hunting and splitting wood. A few were former city people, like myself, who had moved to the lake after the interstate was completed. I even made my first friend from across the pond.  My very proper British friend came here because it reminded him of pubs back home.  But we all had a few things in common; we liked to drink beer, we liked to laugh, we craved company. No matter which town you came from we all liked to discuss deep matters on occasion.

 

The bartenders became like family to me. Of course Jimmy. There was Nancy, Margaret (the owner), Mac (the other owner), and my favorite of all known simply as Slab.  Slab was a huge man with a huger heart. He poured beer into little paper cups so that he could drink along with us as he tended bar. He told jokes and heaved great belly laughs as he slapped his hand on the counter at the delivery of the punch line.  He was slightly hard of hearing so every time we played Liar’s Poker he would need a little clarification from time to time.  I might say, “I have six eights.” Slab would look at his dollar bill, scratch his head and ask,” Did you sat Aces or Eights?” I would reply, “Eights.” Still there would be a bewildered look on Slab’s face. “Snowmen?” he would ask. Smiling, I answered, “Yes. Six snowmen.” At that, Slab would call Moose and we would all examine each other’s bills to see if the total number of snowmen added up to six.

Slab (RIP David Stinson)

Slab was completely unaware of the concept of political correctness.  When he used offensive words I was comfortable enough to engage him in a conversation about why I thought that particular word was offensive. He always listened politely and seemed to consider my opinion. I doubt it had much lasting impact, but that was the kind of place this was.  He could say it and I could raise my objection, but we understood that we were different individuals and our own circumstances had brought us to this point. There was no need to judge.

The first time I brought my future wife to the place, I had warned her in advance about the potential for something offensive to be said.  We sat at the bar and I introduced her to Slabbie. He served our beers and looked quizzically at my date, who resembled the cover photo of Anne Frank that we are all familiar with. I could tell that Slab sensed that there was something different about her. I was getting worried. Was Slab anti-Semitic?

Clearly puzzled he bluntly asked, “What are you? An Injun?” 

Oh, man! I burst out laughing. My future wife looked at me with wide eyes, smiling. “What?” she asked. I knew this was a case where an interpreter was needed.  I said, “Slab thinks that you are a Native American.” She laughed. Slab was still looking for an answer.  He seemed unable to put his finger on what was ethnically different about my girlfriend. In those towns you were either of Scots-Irish descent or African-American. I explained that she was Jewish with Eastern European ancestry.  He seemed satisfied and returned to drinking from his paper cup.  

By the end of that evening he had drunk so many little paper cups that he eventually was standing on one of the swiveling barstools, doing the twist to the song blaring from the juke box: 

"Here she comes now sayin' Mony Mony" 

Some nut suggested that Slab “take it off, take it all off” and he obliged by dropping his pants!  After witnessing the largest pair of Fruit of the Looms we had ever seen, my date and I made a quick exit out the backdoor, practically falling on one another. 

Laughing out loud.

Not every night at the Par was fun and games.  Whenever humans gather there is bound to be tension. Especially when alcohol is involved. There were fights, that typically ended with men hugging and saying how much they loved each other. There were nights when a woman that was a former Austrian Nazi would get drunk and spew hateful and racist words. There were nights when Margaret, the owner, would get so wasted that she couldn’t walk or talk.  Her son Jimmy the bartender would ask me if I could take her home.  I would drive her nearly passed out self to their trailer on the lake where I would have to support her on the walk to the door. 

Jimmy would cross a few hash-marks off my tab.

There were sad nights when I watched Elvie the waitress pour her tip earnings from the steakhouse into the poker machine. There were also nights when she would hit a jackpot and clap with excitement and then spend all her winnings buying beers for the whole place.

Elvie, Tommy, and The Poker Machine

Driving drunk people home was a regular assignment for me.  Johnny, the perpetually unemployed ex-owner of The Par, was one of my regular riders.  He was strong and imposing.  Sometimes it was difficult to get him out of the car.  Under the influence he would tell me how he loved me like a son, only to barely remember my name the next time we saw each other. 

There were plenty of characters in this place and they kept me company and kept me laughing as I transitioned into the next phase in my life.

The TV show Cheers featured a bar where “Everybody knows your name.” It was posh in comparison to The Par 4. But it rang true for me that there are times in our lives where we need a place like this. A place to be with people, to laugh, and see that “our troubles are all the same.”

Ramblings about an Interfaith Marriage or Proud Parents of Free Thinkers

I grew up in a Baptist church in a rapidly growing southern city. The church was widely known for its progressive and intellectual, if not liberal, approach to scripture.  The church had been lead since its inception by bold, outspoken ministers. Theologians with Doctorate degrees from prestigious universities. These powerful men were among the city’s first to stand up for integration and to speak out against the war in Vietnam, never shying from controversy. But in my childhood memory, it was always accepted as a socially appropriate answer to the inevitable southern question of, “Where do you go to Church?” I don’t remember my family using the word Christian to describe ourselves. If the subject came up, we said that we were Baptist. But it was undeniably a Christian church. The progressive stands on social issues were firmly founded in Biblical scholarship.

My wife did not grow up in a Baptist Church. She grew up in a Synagogue. The technical term for our relationship is “interfaith marriage” since neither of us converted to the religion of the other. A mixed marriage. In the south. I can’t say that I ever felt persecuted or judged because I married a Jew. I did become more keenly aware of our society’s insensitivity toward all non-Christians among us.  I noticed the billboards dooming my wife and children to hell a little more than I probably would have otherwise. And I felt my wife’s quiet discomfort at Christmas time.  The discomfort that comes when you are bombarded with songs, and lights, and ribbons and bows that say that you are an outsider.

You don’t belong.

But mostly I have experienced curiosity. People either had questions about how we raised our kids or about what insight I might have into Jewish beliefs.  I became the person you could safely ask without worrying about the insensitive nature of the question.

The most common question I have been asked in regard to our children goes like this:

“How do you raise your children? Aren’t they confused?”
People started asking this before our oldest daughter could even speak.  I’d answer, “Yes, she is. I always seem to lose her around the part that can only be explained in Hebrew!”
Once she was about five, I began to answer rhetorically, “Does your child find it confusing that there are three Gods which are really one God and that’s why we say the Trinity because there is The Father, and The Son, and The Holy Ghost? Oh and that the Holy Ghost is not really a ghost but a God, but not different from the other two Gods because there is only one G-d? I mean, really! Do we really think five year olds understand any of the gobbledy-gook that we throw at them?  Virgin births, snakes with apples, and scary stories about earth destroying floods ordered by the God who loves us unconditionally?”

When we adopted our younger daughter from China these questions seemed to stop.  We added just one too many dimensions to our family dynamic for anyone to even be able to decide which question about raising kids in a virtual mini United Nations was the most pressing one.

So folks moved on to seeking out my deep and vast knowledge about Judaism. Ha ha.  There are two questions that seemed to be foremost in the minds of most Christians.  The first one is easy and could be knocked out quickly. But I might have occasionally dragged it out a little by not giving the simple answer first. It depended on my mood and if I was looking to have a little fun.  The conversation might have gone like this: Random Christian or RC as I’ll refer to them for the rest of this post would ask, “Do they believe in Jesus?”

STOP right there.  I have to interrupt this conversation example to say that it is OK to use the word Jew.  Many of my Christian friends and family try to avoid using that word.  FYI, Jew is not a derogatory term.  You don’t have to say “she is of the Jewish faith” or insert the word “they” like in the question above. It is perfectly OK to say “Do Jews believe in Jesus?” And referring to Jews as “The Jewish” is just wrong and clangs on my ears!


RC: "Do They believe in Jesus?"
Me: "Jesus was a Jew." (Occasionally someone might argue this point) 

RC:  "But do they Believe in him?"
Me: "You mean that he was a skilled Jewish carpenter?"

RC: “No. Do they believe that Jesus is the Son of God?"

OK.  So now I try to explain the simple truth. I explain that Jesus is not a part of Judaism. I say that asking that question is like asking if Christians believe in Mohammed or Buddha.

RC: "But do they believe that he existed? That he rose from the dead?"

Me: "They have no opinion on that. The Torah ends way before Jesus was around." 

RC: "So they don't believe in Him?"

This is where I typically give up and just say, "no". 



The other common question asked of me is, “What do they believe happens when you die?”

As Christians, we seem obsessed with this subject. We seem to spend more time worrying about what happens after we die than what happens while we live. Why is that? I have to admit, that when my future wife and I  were dating, as soon as I had enough nerve built up I asked this question myself.

“We don’t talk about it”,  she said, very matter-of-factly.

This was not the answer I expected. I pressed for more, “But what do you believe?” She answered the same as before, but added that we should not live our lives a particular way because we get some sort of reward at the end of it. We should live our lives in a way that makes the world a better place because that is the right thing to do.

It was clear that she was not going to answer this question any differently.  This was her answer. I’m not sure if she was taught this or if it was something that was just understood. I think her mother did say to me at some point that life should be lived according to G-d’s will because he created us and that is enough in itself. And you know what, it is enough. But doesn’t G-d always do more than enough?

At Passover we sing a song called Dayenu. The refrain that repeats over and over is that G-d always does more than enough. If he had only delivered us from slavery, that would have been enough. But he then defeats the pursuing army, gives us commandments and delivers us to Israel. He never stops giving.

So I’m still a Baptist on a journey with a wife who is still a Jew. My kids are not confused. When they were young children we assured them that G-d was the creator of all things, that he loved us all, and nothing could separate us from that love.  Isn’t that what little ones want to hear and find comfort in?

As they have grown they have been exposed to both faiths. They have been taught that no single religion has a monopoly on G-d. The creator has worked in the lives of different people in different ways.  My children are free to question and learn and find the beliefs and values that are genuine to them. To me, that seems like the opposite of confusion.

In my “about “section on this blog I talk about perspective.  And I respect that we all come to this place with our own experience and circumstance. But I do have to say this. Don’t tell me that the beautiful, sparkling, altruistic, social justice-loving souls that are my wife and kids will be condemned to eternal hell fire by a
loving G-d.

The G-d of Love, Mercy, and Grace would never command this, let alone allow it. Peace be with you all.

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